Reed did not lift his voice. It was not necessary. As he stood on the bank above the sand bed he conveyed an impression of strength in every line of his solid body. Even the corduroy trousers he wore folded into the short laced boots seemed to have fallen into wrinkles that expressed power. Close to fifty, the sap of virile energy still flowed in his veins.
The fist on Tug’s hip clenched. He flushed angrily. “Kind of a local God Almighty on tin wheels,” he said with a sneer.
York was rolling up his pack. Cig, grumbling, had begun to gather his belongings. But the youngest tramp gave no evidence of an intention to leave. Nor did he make a move to get water to put out the still smoldering fire.
The rancher came down from the bank. Forbes was at his elbow. The foreman knew the signs of old. Reed was angry. Naturally imperious, he did not allow any discussion when clearly within his rights. He would not waste his force on such a spineless creature as York, but the youngest tramp was of a different sort. He needed a lesson, and Lon judged he was about to get one.
“Hear me? Get water and douse that fire,” the ranchman said.
His steel-gray eyes were fastened to those of Tug. The tramp faced him steadily. Forbes had a momentary surprise. This young fellow with the pallid dead skin looked as though he would not ask for anything better than a fight.
“Get it yourself,” the hobo flung back.
The right fist of the ranchman lifted swiftly. It did not move far, but it carried great power back of it. The tramp’s head snapped backward. His shoulders hit the sand. He had been caught on the point of the jaw by a knock-out punch.
Tug came back to consciousness under the impression that he was drowning in deep waters. Cig was dipping a can in the creek and sousing its contents over his head. He sat up dizzily. His uncertain gaze fell on some one who had arrived since his exit from activity.
She was a young woman on horseback. He noticed that she was slender and had a good seat. Her dark eyes watched him.